


Goodbye Stranger

by HorrorHobbit



Category: Arsenic and Old Lace (1944)
Genre: F/M, a lot of editing right in the middle of writing the story, also: jonathan brewster has a hair-pulling kink pass it on, and my awkward crush on raymond massey, i thank nitrateglow aka miss femm for brainstorming/cheering me on to write this thing!, this was brought to you by a lot of seat-of-my-pants-writing, this was inspired by a favorite one-off headcanon of mine and it got outta hand real fast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 12:45:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18941230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorrorHobbit/pseuds/HorrorHobbit
Summary: Post-film. After escaping the law, Jonathan runs into an old childhood friend, and has a very interesting night as a result.





	Goodbye Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> For Miss Femm-I really hope you like it, I hope it lives up to the hype!

The only lights visible to her are the headlights that lead her back down the quiet stretch of road through town, and the only sound she hears is the tires rolling over the pavement, drowned out by the crackling radio, already playing Christmas music, and judging by the quick glance at her watch, it is no longer Halloween, it is now November 1st. She gives a little laugh at that as she quietly cruises along, taking a hand off the wheel to stifle a yawn-it’s been a very long evening shift, and all Elizabeth Lanchester wants to do is go home and get some sleep. Her apartment will be quiet when she arrives; her roommate Valerie is off at a Halloween party, and likely won’t be back for quite some time, by Lizzie’s estimate.

As she dwells on this, looking forward to having the apartment to herself for the night, she takes her eyes off the road ahead and happens to glance to her left, her headlights creeping up on a figure waving slowly to her from the sidewalk-even from a distance, she can tell this stranger looks worse for wear, and she, ever a dutiful medical practitioner, pulls over on the empty street and rolls down her window to get a better look at this man, asking, “Sir, are you al-”

A snub-nosed revolver greets her, cutting her off and making her immediately go silent, voice dying in her throat as her gaze moves from the gun, up to the spidery hand that holds it, and all the way up the arm and shoulder and into the face of the man. It is a ghastly face, adorned with stitches and scars, all surrounding a pair of dark, piercing eyes, almost like those of a hawk. Seeing this face, Lizzie grips the steering wheel and almost lets out a piercing scream, but doesn’t get the chance when she hears the hammer cock back, immediately stunning her into silence. She barely registers the stranger moving around to the other side and joining her in the passenger's seat, gun to her forehead as he hisses, “Drive.”

For half a second, Lizzie remains frozen, unable to move, too terrified of the man’s face to really do anything, but it is that same face that incites her to do as he says, far more than the gun does. Fingers fumbling, she puts her Chevy back into drive and returns to the road, still as empty as it ever was. As she drives, she feels like they are the only two people in the world now-her, and a psycho with a stitched-up face pointing a gun at her, never once taking his eyes off of her, not even when he reaches out to switch off the radio. She tries to keep her eyes on the road, tries not to stare at him, but she still can’t help but steal the occasional uncomfortable glance his way. His dark hair is askew, his suit looks as though it’s seen better days, and from what she can tell, he’s bleeding. She almost brings it up, but decides against it, instead stuttering out, “Wh-Where d-d-do you wa-want me t-to take you, s-sir?”

“Where do you live?”  
“J-Just up the road, a-a few blocks from here…”  
“Where?”  
“A-An apartment building, sixth floor-”  
“Is anyone else there?”  
“N-No, sir, j-just me tonight, sir.”

He huffs at that, before saying, to her horror, “Take me there.”

Lizzie resists the urge to protest, to stop the car and flee and run and scream for help, and instead does as he says, continuing to drive as calmly and reasonably as she can. It’s not easy to do, however, not only with the gun pointed at her, but the man’s unrelenting, unblinking gaze. With the few little glances she makes at him, she feels like he’s studying her, like a bug under a microscope, she feels. He’s watching her every move...almost like he’s trying to place her, like he’s seen her somewhere. She can’t imagine where, and she doesn’t want to imagine as the Chevy rumbles down the road, past a police cruiser of all things. She’s almost tempted to try and flag him down, but doesn’t-though she notices how her passenger looks the other way, obscuring his face from the officer’s view.

It feels like an eternity before they reach her apartment complex, and even then, she almost doesn’t want to stop driving, absolutely dreading bringing this stranger inside. What will he do when they get there? A half-dozen ugly ideas pop into her brain as she shakily pulls over and shuts the car off, watching nervously as the man looks up and down the streets before getting out. He doesn’t show it, but she can see his paranoia, his desire not to be seen. He seems to hunch his shoulders and look down and away as they enter the apartment, paper bats and skeletons still hanging in the lobby, a lone jack-o’lantern still burning in the window. There’s no one on duty, leaving them to quietly enter the elevator, and leaving her trapped with this man all over again. No place to run, no place to hide.

As the elevator creaks its way up to the sixth floor, she can still feel his eyes on her, looking her up and down, and she tries to look away, unsettled by his gaze: She’s still dressed for work, that crisp, clean white dress and matching heels and little cap, offset by a pair of dark stockings, a look so many of her male patients find so delightfully cute. Such a look usually makes her feel like she’s walked off the set of a movie, a movie about a dolled-up nurse with blonde curls and a sweet smile falling in love with some nice fella, maybe one of her patients even, but now, it disturbs her to think of how this man might be thinking of her in this outfit.

The notion makes her stomach tighten as they walk down the long stretches of silent hallways to her door, and she inwardly curses herself when she drops her keys, and nervously fumbles to pick it up and unlock the door. He hasn’t spoken in quite some time, and she can’t decide whether that makes her feel better or worse-what is he thinking? What does he want from her? What happened to him? Does she want to know? Will she find out anyways?

Nervously, she lets him in, careful to lock the door tight at his orders when they’re both inside. Immediately, he moves to the window, looking out both ways before making sure it’s locked, and the curtains are shut. This he does with all of them, before moving back to the main room, where she’s been standing like a statue, unsure of what to say or do. When he returns, he finally asks, “Where is your first aid kit?”

“In the bathroom-” she manages to say, him already moving before she can finish her sentence, finding it in the cabinet and immediately bringing it to the living room, where he takes a seat on the sofa and begins to strip off his jacket and vest, before going for the shirt. That’s when she steps forward to stop him, and says, despite her own inward protests, “Let me help you.”

He gives her a look at that, one that makes her stop for a minute before she says, “I’m a nurse. I-I can help you.”

For a moment, he says and does nothing, before finally relaxing and letting her approach and look him over-from what she can see, he’s been grazed by a couple of bullets, to say nothing of the multiple bruises that she can see, all signs of some hell of a fight. The bruises she doesn’t focus on, instead turning her attention to the grazings on his arm, though why, she just doesn’t know. Inside, she wants to bash the man over the head with her tableside lamp and call the police to come get him, but she doesn’t. Instead, she does her duty as a nurse, trying not to dwell on the ‘why’. Maybe, just maybe, once he’s been cleaned and stitched up, he’ll leave her alone.

He doesn’t say a word when she begins stitching up his arm, not even grunting or flinching when the needle passes through his flesh-instead, his gaze is on the small table against the wall, and all the photos on it, photos of herself and her family, mostly from her childhood in Brooklyn. She doesn’t notice his staring until he speaks up, and her heart stops.

“So, little Lizzie grew up and ran away to Queens…”

The needle is halfway through his skin when she says this, and her head jerks up to stare at him, eyes unblinking as she asks, “H-H-How do you k-know my name?”

“I remember you, Lizzie. I remember all the fun I used to have with you...you were always easy to scare.” He was smiling now, a snake’s smile as he looks down at her, asking her teasingly, “Don’t you remember the little boy who used to pull your pigtails, and put spiders down your dress?”

Her blood turns to ice-water, and she doesn’t blink as she stands up and steps away, managing to say, voice hoarse, “I...I remember that little boy...I-I remember how, wh-when he pulled my hair, I once told him t-to ‘go run with scissors’, and how good I felt when he went inside...only to run away when he came back with scissors. I remember how he chased me all the way home, and my parents weren’t around, and how I locked myself in my room, while he laughed at me from outside, daring me to come out. Yes, I...I remember that little boy.”

Now her back is to the wall, and she feels like whimpering as she says, “Y-You’re Johnny. Johnny Brewster.”

“It’s good to see you again, Lizzie,” he smiles, now standing tall against the sofa, watching her. “How long has it been?”  
“Not long enough.”

Such a mouthy response from such a terrified girl-he’s almost sort of impressed as he watches her, quivering in her heels as she attempts to stand tall, stare him down, not show fear. He’s forgotten all about the needle and thread dangling out of his arm as he watches her, somewhat unable to believe that this is little Lizzie Lanchester all grown up. He still remembers her as a young girl, just a couple of years younger than himself, with her golden locks plaited in two pigtails held by little pink ribbons. Back then, he remembers her being an easy target, albeit an annoying one. She talked too much, a regular chatterbox with a pouty lip and a missing front tooth. A part of him always wanted to try throttling her with those two ribbons in her hair, but he never got the chance. She cut her hair down to a bob after one too many tugs-what a shame. It was no fun to grab a handful of curls like it was with pigtails.

And from the looks of things, she kept it that way, perhaps to avoid any similar incidents in the future, but that seemed to be the only thing that stayed the same. Where was once a short, scrawny, obnoxious little girl now stood a plainly beautiful young woman, lean and slender in her nurse’s uniform. That pout that he remembered annoying him so much as a boy seemed to have gone away, as did that little gap in her teeth. Her blonde curls are still neat and short, despite her frazzled state, those big blue eyes so wide, like a deer in the headlights. It probably doesn’t help that he’s been staring silently at her, making her unsure of what was to come.

He moves one step closer, and she darts away, just as she did as a girl, running to her room and locking the door to escape him. He gives a laugh at that, a very tired, but darkly amused laugh as he settles back down onto the sofa, finishing what she’d started in regards to his stitches before putting his shirt back on, half-buttoning it up before he sinks into his seat, finally allowed a minute of quiet. A minute to process the absolute disaster that was tonight. He grits his teeth furiously, gnashing them as he goes over the events of earlier until his stomach hurts and he wants to pitch something out the window, and he finds it in himself to calm down. The less noise he makes the better; the last thing he needs is another go-around with the cops.

Pushing himself off his seat, Jonathan paces the floor like a caged panther, careful to avoid to the windows as he does. He feels anxious, and his stomach is in knots-but why? Yes, the evening had been a frenzied one, but this...this felt different. He tries not to dwell on it, but it keeps nagging him, over and over, never stopping. He looks at the door Lizzie ran into, stares it down for a minute, trying to picture her behind it. He’s sure she’s all curled up in the corner whimpering like a frightened child, but he also imagines her pacing like him, wandering the floor with her fingers running through her hair, trying to think of what to do next. He pictures that white nurse’s gown standing out amidst the darkened bedroom, that gown that hugs her figure and underscores the fact that she’s not the little girl he remembers anymore. His pulse quickens a little at the thought, and he quickly sits back down, refusing to entertain it, no matter how alluring it is. He tries to put his focus elsewhere, anywhere but that, but he just can’t. His mind wanders back to her every time, and he finds himself remembering how disappointed he was when he didn’t see her anymore as a boy, when she moved away. But why was he disappointed? It wasn’t like he missed anything about her other than that she was fun to terrorize. He didn’t miss her little smile with that missing tooth, or how she stuck her lip out when she wasn’t getting her way, or how soft he noticed her hair was when he was pulling it…

But he then remembers moping around the house when she left, for a reason he didn’t understand, and that thought makes him grip the sofa arm-there was no reason for him to mope! She was gone, the annoying little brat was gone! That was fine by him, he could settle for tormenting Mortimer, so what if she wasn’t around? It wasn’t like he’d ever liked her…

And he still didn’t like her now. Not at all.

Of course, now he’d have to kill her, wouldn’t he? She’d seen his face, and who was to say she wouldn’t call the police as soon as he closed his eyes? He thumbs the switchblade in his pocket as he mulls over this-how easy it would be to go into that bedroom right now and just be done with it...she’d never see him coming, she never did. It was easy sneaking up on her, that’s how he managed to slip so many creepy-crawlies down her dresses…yes, it’d be easy to kill her. Maybe he wouldn’t even stab her, maybe he’d take those fine silk stockings she wore and strangle her with them...he tries to sate himself with that idea, the idea of tightening the dark fabric around her little throat.

But when he imagines his hands touching those silk stockings, feeling the smooth, soft fabric grace his fingertips, he also imagines her legs still being in those stockings, allowing him to feel her shapely legs, all the way up to her thighs, and he has the foresight to stop his imaginary hands before they go any further. He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose before getting up again and wandering into the kitchenette-he needs a drink. Unfortunately, he finds nothing stronger than a bottle of red wine. It’s not his aunts elderberry wine, but it’ll do.

He’s already had two glasses when Lizzie returns from her room, trying to look as stoic as she possibly can: Her makeup has been cleared away, through she’s still wearing her work clothes, sans heels, her stocking-clad feet padding softly across the floor as she finds herself a glass and pours herself a little wine as well, hoping and praying it will help her relax, if only just a little. At least enough to put together a plan for what to do next.

She watches Jonathan as she drinks, wary of anything he may try to do while she’s in his presence-he was always unpredictable as a boy, she recalls, leaving her guessing as to what he might be planning. It could be something as simple as dumping a bucket of worms on her head from behind or something as terrible as holding her down and pushing thumbtacks into her fingers. Her fingers twitch at that particular memory, but she nevertheless grips the wine glass tight as she steps back into the living room, still watching him. He watches her back, and she can just feel his eyes roving over every inch of her-it makes her skin crawl, yes, but she still finds it in herself to ask, “Wh-What do you want, Johnny?”

“It’s been a long day and an even longer night, Lizzie.” he replies, voice deadpan as he adds, “I need a place to lay low for a while. Just until I know it’s safe to leave. Now, we can play nice and get along, I’m sure, but if you even think about calling for help, Lizzie, I’ll know. Need I remind you of what I said I’d do if you kept on crying? About cutting that annoying little tongue out of your mouth?”

“You’re not staying here,” she breathed, eyes wide and unblinking, her spine tingling with terror. “I don’t care what you do to me, you’re not staying here!” Dropping her glass without thought, she rushed across the living room floor, eyes set solely on making it to the phone before Jonathan could grab her-inevitably, he did grab her arm, leading her to immediately begin to try to pull away, giving a cry when his grip tightened the more she struggled. Squirming in fear, with her free arm, she managed to strike him across the face, but to her surprise, it didn’t do a thing, his grip not even loosening. In fact, it only seemed to get tighter, and with another sharp cry, Lizzie pushed instead of pulled, knocking both herself and Jonathan back onto the sofa, him finally letting go of her forearm. Ignoring the ache in it, she tries to get away as fast as she could, but Jonathan is quicker, reaching out to grab her wrist and drag her back down, forcing her into the corner of the seat as his thin, spidery hands wrap around her throat. Instinctively, her hands grab his, and she stares up at him with a gasp, managing to cry out, “Johnny, no-!”

There he was: Right there, on top of her with his hands on her neck, and it would be so easy to choke her now, so easy to shut her up for good...what was he waiting for? Why was he just laying there like an idiot, not moving, not even blinking as he stares at her, stares at that pretty little face, and letting the scent of her perfume fill his head and fog his mind. It’s like he’s just stopped, unable to say or do anything. He hears her whimper very quietly, and he watches as her soft little lips tremble.

It would be just as easy to kiss her as it would be to kill her.

But he does neither.

Instead, he lets her go, his heart pounding in his chest as she stares at him in confusion and uncertainty, rubbing her throat-why did he let her go? DId he have something else in mind? She wonders this as she watches him sit these, chest rising and falling, and it is at that moment that she notices the blotch of scarlet at his side, surrounding a small tear in the shirt. The blotch is growing bigger now, a sign that something has been disturbed.

“Johnny…” she whispers, watching it, and finally, he seems to acknowledge it. He doesn’t seem concerned, really, instead saying, “It’s nothing.”

“You’re bleeding, I hardly call that nothing!” she protests, and for just a half a second, he sees that little pout she used to do. He tries to convince himself the flip his stomach does when he sees it is because it still annoys him as he looks away, repeating, “It’s nothing. Just a souvenir from my time at the police station tonight.”

He goes quiet, ignoring her, and for a minute, she ignores him too, still trying to put as much distance between them as she can-God knows, if she gets any closer, he might try and strangle her again. She probably just got lucky that the wound stopped him. That must be it, right? No other reason he’d stop, he certainly never stopped when they were younger, during all the times he tried to hurt her and succeeded. Honestly, she finds a little satisfaction in seeing Jonathan Brewster looking so worse for wear, so bruised and bloodied, especially given what he used to put her through.

But then she eyes the injury again, and she winces, remembering her oath as a nurse-to help anyone who needed it, no matter who they were. Even if they were the psychotic bully from the down the street, it was her duty to help. She inwardly scowls at that goody-two-shoes little voice reminding her of this, and sort of pouts at it. Duty or not, she’s not going to help him. 

Five minutes later, she’s digging a slug out of his side, while he lies there silently, idly watching her work as he drinks from the gradually-emptying wine bottle (as he takes a swig, he muses that if he keeps this up, he’s going to end up just like Einstein). They don’t speak, he just drinks and she works, cleaning and stitching the wound carefully before pulling away, partly to go wash her hands, partly to get away from him. It feels strange to her, having been so close to him, touching him even, and she shudders when she realizes how hot her face has gotten. She sincerely hopes he didn’t see her cheeks so red while she worked, nor how pink they still are when she returns to the living room, unsure of what to say or do as she tries to take a seat in an adjacent chair, but Jonathan’s gaze stops her. She shakes her head, but when she sees his hand move for his pocket-and the gun-she relinquishes, and sits beside him again. Why he wants her to, she’s not sure, but she’s wary just the same-if she needs to, she can grab the wine bottle and use it against him.

Although his unblinking gaze still unnerves her, she also finds it makes her cheeks grow warm, and she hates it. Perhaps, a very, very long time ago, before she knew what kind of a monster he could be, she might’ve liked him looking at her. Though the idea turned her stomach now, he had once been a precocious crush of her’s, and she supposed she liked to try and get his attention, wearing her nicest play dresses and her hair in pigtails for him. All that got her was bugs and mud on her clothes and a great deal of soreness from all the pulling he did, she realized.

But just because she may have fancied him once upon a time didn’t mean she fancied him now, oh no: He was still a bully and a monster and probably scores of other terrible things that she didn’t want to think about, and just because he spared her life and she nursed his wounds didn’t mean she cared about him. She wanted nothing more than to get him out of her apartment and out of her life, she didn’t care what her body said-she could blush all she liked. And he could stare all he liked. Nothing was going to happen between them.

When his staring reached enough of an uncomfortable point, Lizzie forced herself to stare back at him, back into that ugly, scarred face, finding the courage to say, “Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s rude to stare, Johnny?”

 

“I could say the same thing about you, Lizzie,” he replies, both of them now leaning towards one another without thinking as he adds, “I expected better out of you-you were always such a good girl.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she retorts, stomach doing flips now, yet still refusing to look away. “You didn’t have any manners as a boy, and you still don’t have them now!”

“Are you still mad at me for getting mud on your new dress?” he groans in annoyance, at which she glares at him, retorting hotly, “There’s a lot of things I’m still mad at you about, Jonathan Brewster, a lot more than just getting me muddy! That was the least of what you did to me!”

He gives a twisted smirk at that, replying, “Still want to tell me to go run with scissors, Lizzie? I’m sure I can find a nice pair around here somewhere-though I’d hate to cut up that pretty little dress you have on...or tear up your stockings…” 

They’re practically nose-to-nose now, and while he’s just smiling that crocodile smile at her, her face feels red-hot, fear and frustration in her eyes, and she almost thinks of a good retort when she hears the front door open, followed by the shuffle of feet. Immediately, she jerks her head away from Jonathan (who instead avoids looking at the intruder altogether) and sighs when she sees Valerie come in, saying breathlessly, “You’re home earlier than I expected!”

“Yeah,” her friend smiles, sweeping off her witch’s hat and shaking out her deep brown curls, saying, “The Halloween party was going swell until Tommy got called back to the station-something about some guy they arrested making a break for it, I’m not sure. Sounds like every blue boy in the five boroughs is on the lookout for this creep.”

Jonathan’s eyes widen, and he seems to grow more morose as Valerie goes on, saying, “I asked Tommy before he left if he knew anything about the guy, and he said all his boss told him was that he made Frankenstein look like a lily. I don’t know-I tried to call you to let you know I was coming home, but the phone’s out.”

Remembering the near-deadly tussle she’d had earlier, Lizzie’s eyes widened as she asked quietly, “Out?”

“Looks like it: Nobody can get through to anybody, it seems, not even to emergency services. Must be a lucky break for that guy, though, nobody can call for help if they see him!”

“Uh-huh…” she mumbles, catching Jonathan’s dark glance as Valerie fully enters the room, finally acknowledging the other figure sitting on the couch-immediately, she brightens with a full smile as she leans against the adjacent chair, trying to get a good look at him as she greets, “Hello, stranger! Who might you be?”

“U-Uh, Valerie, this is-this is Jonathan, a...an old friend of mine from Brooklyn,” Lizzie introduces quickly, eyes darting back and forth between the two. “Jonathan, this is Valerie Clarke, my roommate.” She watches quietly as Jonathan idly shakes Valerie’s extended hand, clearly not at all enthused about having another person to deal with around-especially when Lizzie had told him it would only be her in the apartment that night. Her stomach tightens with a twinge of fear, but that fear turns to annoyance when Valerie shoots her a sly look-she knows exactly what she’s implying, and she doesn’t like it.

“I see you two finished off my bottle of wine,” she chuckles, taking said bottle into the kitchen and completely missing the broken wine glass on the linoleum, a mess Lizzie had completely forgotten about in her frenzied attempt to reach the phone. She doesn’t even bat an eye at it as she stretches and yawns, saying, “Well, I’d love to stay up and chat, but I’ve gotta hit the hay, Liz-Uncle Stewart wants me at the shop bright and early tomorrow to help take down the Halloween decorations. Nice meeting you though, Johnny.” Totally oblivious to the tense and watchful gazes of both Jonathan and Elizabeth, she bids them both a good night, but just before she enters her bedroom, she pauses in the doorway to say to Jonathan, smiling ear to ear when she does:

“By the way, great Boris Karloff makeup-you’re a dead ringer for him!”

Not even five seconds after she’s said that, Lizzie is on her feet and trying to hold back the infuriated Jonathan, who has now drawn his switchblade and is stalking towards the closed bedroom door, with the unsuspecting Valerie just behind it. She tugs and pulls and yanks, but he just keeps on moving, gaze fixated on the door, almost as though he doesn’t even notice Lizzie’s attempts, even as she moves in front of him, practically yelling, “Johnny, stop!” and giving him a hard shove. Harder than either of them anticipated, really, as Jonathan stumbles backwards, grabbing Lizzie’s wrist and pulling her down on top of him.

Now, that in itself would be awful enough: Already has Lizzie had to contend with being in such close corners with him, be it in the car, the elevator, on the couch, and now here, on the floor, on top of him. It doesn’t seem like it could possibly get any worse.

But that was before she realizes where her lips have landed.

For those brief, fleeting seconds, Jonathan’s mind has gone seemingly blank, unable to process his current situation-was he really kissing her? And if so, why wasn’t he doing anything about it? Why wasn’t he pushing her off him and getting back what he was doing? For the life of him, he can’t really remember what he was doing, unable to think of it-all he could think of was that faint taste of lipstick, and the dizzying scent of her perfume.

And then she pulls away and starts yelling at him, and it all comes back to him. With a groan, he sits up, only to be greeted with another sharp slap across the face (which still doesn’t faze him much) and her yelp of, “You did that on purpose!”

She’s sitting just a few feet away, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed pink-going-red when he looks at her, and gives her a smirk. It’s that same crocodile smile he’s given her off and on all night, the same one he used to give her when they were children. It’s a sly and dangerous smile, and it does nothing to help her burning cheeks.

“You look like you enjoyed it, Lizzie. I wonder why-considering you’ve made it clear how much you hate me tonight.”  
“I do hate you! And I didn’t enjoy it, not at all-you probably did, though, since you still love to torture me!”  
“Then why are you blushing?”

“I-I’m not, I-I just…!” Now she’s sputtering and stuttering and can’t think of a good comeback answer, and she hates it: When he’s not scaring her, he’s teasing her, and when he’s not doing either of those things, he’s acting like he’s in love with her…!

“Maybe it’s the wine,” she finally sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Maybe it’s the wine and how many hours I’ve been up or maybe I’m just going crazy and thinking things I shouldn’t…” It’s one or the other, and she doesn’t know which.

And for now, she decides not to think about it.

Jonathan watches her through all of this, his face expressionless, giving no hints as to what he’s thinking or feeling. He’s just gone back to staring at her, still wondering what to do with her. He’s still fiddling with his switchblade as he mulls it over, watching as she takes a deep breath, looking calmer, more resigned than she has all night, and gets to her feet, crossing the living room to reach the phone. He watches as she picks up the receiver and listens.

There is no operator.

Slowly hanging up, she returns to where she had been on the floor, having gone quiet. She and Jonathan watch one another.

“...Are you going to kill me, Johnny?”

“...No. Are you going to turn me in, Lizzie?”

“...No.”

They both stand up, still watching one another, his eyes roving over her figure again, while her eyes remain fixated on his face. It doesn’t scare her anymore, and she’s okay with his staring.

In the dark, his spidery hands creep along her figure, fingertips ghosting her half-dressed figure and sending shivers up her spine-whether those shivers are from fear or pleasure, she doesn’t know, as she instead finds her hands running over his spindly body, occasionally brushing against what feels like an old wound, the only sign of this coming from the rasp that escapes him when she touches them as she pushes off his clothes and leaves them discarded on and around the bed. His hands move from her waist to her thighs, and just as he had imagined earlier, he feels them, feels the warmth through the silk as he slides them off. He holds one for a moment, and very briefly contemplates strangling her with it, before huffing and casting it aside with its fellow. The temptation lingers, however, as his fingertips run against her throat, and her breath hitches as she watches him, eyeing the heavy lamp on her bedside table-just in case. She relaxes when she hears him chuckle darkly, and she knows he did it to scare her. He does it the whole time, gripping her tighter than anticipated, making too quick a movement, all followed by a little laugh. There’s something nostalgic to him about tormenting her, just a little-in the middle of it all, that creeping hand snakes its way up and grabs a fistful of blonde curls and gives it a hard tug, eliciting a most embarrassing moan out of her. She knows he’s laughing at her for it, maintaining that grip as he moves into her again.

“For old time’s sake.”

But then she reaches up and grabs a fistful of dark hair and gives it an equally hard tug, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to strike her or kiss her. He opts for neither, instead letting go and giving a frustrated hiss to hide how surprised and pleased he was by this.

The sun is just barely beginning to rise when they lie down together, Jonathan on his back, eyes already closed, while Lizzie lays on her side to face him, still awake. For what feels like forever, silence fills the bedroom until, finally, she manages to ask him, “Johnny, do you love me?”

Silence.

“No.”

She doesn’t know whether to be hurt or relieved by this answer, instead rolling over to face the window, saying quietly, “Good. Because I don’t love you either.” 

With that, she drifts off into a deep sleep, not at all stirring, even when Jonathan sits up beside her just a few hours later, when the sun has still not quite made it to the tops of the distant buildings yet. He dresses in silence, not caring that his shirt is still stained with dried blood or that his suit jacket is crumpled and wrinkled, instead trying to think of his next step-getting out of town as fast as he can.

As he checks his watch, wondering when the next train out of the city was, he turns back to see the still-sleeping Lizzie, completely oblivious to his plans. She’ll probably be happy to see him gone, he figures-he’ll be happy to get out of this tiny apartment and get away from her; the further the better. They can go back to their lives. They can forget last night, make it a distant dream-or nightmare, whichever she preferred. 

For a minute or two, Jonathan watches her sleep, before eventually leaning over and, without really thinking about it, leaves a faint kiss in her golden curls-if he kisses her lips, he feels he won’t want to leave her.

“Goodbye, Lizzie,” he says under his breath as he pulls away, gets to his feet, and heads for the bedroom door.

And as he leaves, just as the door closes, he swears he can hear her say, just as quietly, “Goodbye, Johnny.”


End file.
